The New Warden. Ritchie David George

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СКАЧАТЬ of rain fell lightly in at them, and May drew in her head.

      "Oxford has become a city of memories to me," said the Warden, and he put out his arm to draw in the window.

      "That is only when you are sad," said May.

      "Yes," said the Warden slowly, "it is only when I give way to gloom. After all, this is a great time, it can be made a great time. If only all men and women realised that it might be the beginning of the 'Second Coming.' As it is, the chance may slip."

      He pulled the window further in and secured it.

      May pushed aside the curtain and went back into the glow and warmth of the room.

      She gathered up her knitting and thrust it into the bag.

      "Are you going?" asked the Warden. He was standing now in the middle of the room watching her.

      "I'm going," said May.

      "I've driven you away," he said, "by my dismal talk."

      "Driven me away!" she repeated. "Oh no!" Her voice expressed a great reproach, the reproach of one who has suffered too, and who has "dreamed dreams." Surely he knew that she could understand!

      "Forgive me!" he said, and held out his hand impulsively. At least it seemed strangely impulsive in this self-contained man.

      She put hers into it, withdrew it, and together they went to the door. For the first time in her life May felt the sting of a strange new pain. The open door led away from warmth and a world that was full and satisfying – at least it would have led away from such a world – a world new to her – only that she was saying "Good night" and not "Good-bye." Later on she would have to say "Good-bye." How many days were there before that – five whole days? She walked up the steps, and went into the corridor. Louise was there, just coming towards her.

      "Madame desires me to say good night," said Louise, giving May's face a quick searching glance.

      "I'll come and say good night to her," said May, "if it's not too late."

      No, it was not too late. Louise led the way, marvelling at the callous self-assurance of English people.

      Louise opened her mistress's door, and though consumed with raging curiosity, left Mrs. Dashwood to enter alone.

      "Oh, May!" cried Lady Dashwood. She was moving about the room in a grey dressing-gown, looking very restless, and with her hair down.

      "You didn't come down again," said May; "you were tired?"

      "I wasn't tired!" Here Lady Dashwood paused. "May, I have, by pure accident, come upon a letter – from Belinda to Gwen. I don't know how it came among my own letters, but there it was, opened. I don't know if I opened it by mistake, but anyhow there it was opened; I began reading the nauseous rubbish, and then realised that I was reading Belinda. Now the question is, what to do with the letter? It contains advice. May, Gwen is to secure the Warden! It seems odd to see it written down in black and white."

      Lady Dashwood stared hard at her niece – who stood before her, thoughtful and silent.

      "Shall I give it to Gwen – or what?" she asked.

      "Well," began May, and then she stopped.

      "Of course, I blame myself for being such a fool as to have taken in Belinda," said Lady Dashwood (for the hundredth time). "But the question now is – what to do with the letter? It isn't fit for a nice girl to read; but, no doubt, she's read scores of letters like it. The girl is being hawked round to see who will have her – and she knows it! She probably isn't nice! Girls who are exhibited, or who exhibit themselves on a tray ain't nice. Jim knows this; he knows it. Oh, May! as if he didn't know it. You understand!"

      May Dashwood stood looking straight into her aunt's face, revolving thoughts in her own mind.

      "Some people, May," said Lady Dashwood, "who want to be unkind and only succeed in being stupid, say that I am a matchmaker. I have always conscientiously tried to be a matchmaker, but I have rarely succeeded. I have been so happy with my dear old husband that I want other people to be happy too, and I am always bringing young people together – who were just made for each other. But they won't have it, May! I introduce a sweet girl full of womanly sense and affection to some nice man, and he won't have her at any price. He prefers some cheeky little brat who after marriage treats him rudely and decorates herself for other men. I introduce a really good man to a really nice girl and she won't have him, she 'loves,' if you please, a man whom decent men would like to kick, and she finds herself spending the rest of her life trying hard to make her life bearable. I dare say your scientists would say – Nature likes to keep things even, bad and good mixed together. Well, I'm against Nature. My under-housemaid develops scarlet fever, and dear old Nature wants her to pass it on to the other maids, and if possible to the cook. Well, I circumvent Nature."

      May Dashwood's face slowly smiled.

      "But I did not bring Gwendolen Scott to this house – she was forced upon me – and I was weak enough to give in. Now, I should very much like to say something when I give the letter to Gwen. But I shall have to say nothing. Yes, nothing," repeated Lady Dashwood, "except that I must tell her that I have, by mistake, read the first few lines."

      "Yes," said May Dashwood.

      "After all, what else could I say?" exclaimed Lady Dashwood. "You can't exactly tell a daughter that you think her mother is a shameless hussy, even if you may think that she ought to know it."

      "Poor Gwen and poor Lady Belinda!" said May Dashwood sighing, and moving to go, and trying hard to feel real pity in her heart.

      "No," said Lady Dashwood, raising her voice, "I don't say 'poor Belinda.' I don't feel a bit sorry for the old reprobate, I feel more angry with her. Don't you see yourself – now you know Jim," continued Lady Dashwood, throwing out her words at her niece's retreating figure – "don't you see that Jim deserves something better than Belinda and Co.? Now, would you like to see him saddled for life with Gwendolen Scott?"

      May Dashwood did not reply immediately; she seemed to be much occupied in walking very slowly to the door and then in slowly turning the handle of the door. Surely Gwendolen and her mother were pitiable objects – unsuccessful as they were?

      "Now, would you?" demanded Lady Dashwood. "Would you?"

      "I should trust him not to do that," said May, as she opened the door. She looked back at the tall erect figure in the grey silk dressing-gown. "Good night, dear aunt." And she went out. "You see, I am running away, and I order you to go to bed. You are tired." She spoke through the small open space she had left, and then she closed the door.

      "Trust him! Oh, Lord!" exclaimed Lady Dashwood, in a loud voice.

      But she was not altogether displeased with the word "trust" in May Dashwood's mouth. "She seems pretty confident that Jim isn't going to make a martyr of himself," she said to herself happily.

      The door opened and Louise entered with an enigmatical look on her face. Louise had been listening outside for the tempestuous sounds that in her country would have issued from any two normal women under the same circumstances.

      But no such sounds had reached her attentive ears, and here was Lady Dashwood moving about with a serene countenance. She was even smiling. Oh, what a country, what people!

      CHAPTER VIII

      THE LOST LETTER

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